


Number 10

by supersoakerx



Category: Roadkill (BBC 2020)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Daddy Kink, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Canon, Spoilers, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, femme!reader, post-Roadkill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29413836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: *SPOILERS AHEAD*femme!Reader (you) is an aide for the Prime Minister, Peter Laurence, and tensions finally boil over one night at 10 Downing Street.
Relationships: Peter Laurence/Reader, Peter Laurence/You
Kudos: 8





	Number 10

**Author's Note:**

> Could there be more to this? You tell me!

“You asked to see me, Prime Minister?”

The Right Honourable Peter Laurence looks up from the papers he holds in his lap, peeking out at you over the rim of his glasses. It’s late; the pair of you have been here most of the night, and you’d been waiting for him to either send you for coffee or send you home.

“Ah,” says Peter, drawing out the vowels in your name as he removes his glasses, “get the door, would you?”

You push the door closed before walking over to his desk, stopping before one of the two armchairs arranged in front of it. You open your folio and slip your pen from its holster. “What can I do for you, Prime Minister?”

Peter shakes his head and smiles. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, looking pointedly at your open notepad and blue ballpoint pen poised above it.

He matches your stare while you gaze at him with playful scepticism. You fold your folio closed with a snap and hold it in front of you, resting it against your body.

Peter drops the stack of briefing papers on his desk and leans back in his chair with a sigh. He regards you for a moment. “What are your thoughts on Julia?”

Your eyes narrow quizzically, but Peter merely tilts his head to the other side. His eyes threaten to smile as he appraises you.

You hesitate. You wouldn’t be telling him anything he didn’t already know, would you? You straighten your back and speak honestly. “Manipulative opportunist. Unreliable.”

Peter smiles and rocks back in a silent laugh. “And Joy?”

Your fingers flex where you hold your leather folio against your front. Is he doing this to all his staff? What are they saying about you? “Harmless administrator. Questionable competence.”

Peter’s brow lifts with a hint of humour. “The two types of people in government.”

“They’re both useful, Sir,” you swallow, unsure whether a line has yet been crossed or is about to be, “and, both are dangerous, too.”

Peter tilts his head again and leans back against the headrest. At this angle, he looks at you through half-lidded eyes. “This is true,” he says slowly, and murmurs your name, “are you telling me what I want to hear?”

“Did you ask me because you want it confirmed?”

“So what is it about you, then?” The Prime Minister says, ignoring your question. His rich blue eyes narrow in puzzlement, but something in them glimmers in the soft amber reading light.

You regard him for a long moment. The pair of you had been dancing around this since that press conference a few months ago—perhaps even earlier. “I don’t catch your meaning, Sir.”

“No,” he looks you over, “I suppose not.” Peter stands and slowly walks around his desk to you, his gaze fixed on yours all the while. “One thing that a snake in the grass and a dithering scatter-brain have in common?” he says, leaning one palm on the desk to crouch to your height.

You come up blank. “I won’t speculate, Sir.”

“Mh,” he hums, his gaze momentarily flicking down to your lips. “Both, for different reasons, keep you ‘on your toes’. They keep you weary, because you’re focused on spotting the next betrayal. But, neither of those prospects,” he glances at your lips again, “have ever… _excited_ me.” He takes your folio from your hands and drops it onto his desk behind him, without looking away from your eyes. “Like you do. Why?”

Your gaze flits between his eyes, the two orbs as deep and blue and untroubled as the Aegean. The answer to his riddle is simple. “Trust.”

Peter huffs a laugh. “Ironically you can trust a self-serving person to be the first to jump ship. And any fool can be loyal.”

“So what’s the difference, then?” You fold your hands over the back of the armchair in front of you, unsure what to do with them. “Reciprocity? Respect? What is it?”

“What, indeed?”

He’s so close you catch a hint of coffee on his breath; followed by the barest remnant of minty, musky aftershave he’d splashed on before his last meeting. “Prime Minister,” you breathe softly, attempting to resist him.

But your heart’s not in it, he can tell. Unconvinced and undeterred, he places one finger under your chin and gently tilts your head to better meet his stone-blue eyes. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How much?” That was too quick an answer, he thinks.

You gaze into his eyes. “Enough, Sir.”

“Enough to tell me when I’m taking advantage of it?” Peter slides the back of his finger along your jaw to your ear, where he tucks a lock of your hair back into place.

Your pulse pounds through your veins; you feel the insistent beating thud in your ears and neck and fingers—and between your legs. “You couldn’t take anything I wouldn’t want to give… Peter.”

His blue eyes blaze, sun on arctic snow. “Clever girl,” he purrs. “But that’s not quite it, is it?” Peter trails a palm gently down your back, finding the top of the zipper that holds your pencil skirt together.

Your breathing comes faster, and your mouth goes dry. His palm is warm, searing your skin through your clothes. “S-Sir—?”

“That’s not what you want, sweetling.” Peter pulls the zip down slowly, and when your skirt hangs loosely about your hips, he glides his hand up your belly to your bra-clad chest.

You fight to control your breath as his palm cradles your breast. He squeezes, and you gasp.

“You can tell me,” he whispers in your ear, running his hand over your bra to your other breast. “What do you call me, darling—at night, in bed?”

You arch into his touch as heat flushes your skin. You can barely keep your lids from fluttering closed.

“When you’re alone, thinking about me,” Peter croons, stepping in behind you. “When you can’t stop your hands from wandering.” He keeps one hand at your breast and snakes the other inside your skirt, toying with your pussy through your panties. “What do you call me?” he purrs into your ear.

Peter’s touch and his hot exhale send a thrill up your spine. You sigh breathily as he teases you, stroking your clothed pussy lips with the pads of two fingers. The word he’s asking for is on the tip of your tongue, and when he pinches your nipple through your bra you almost moan it aloud for him.

“What do you cry out,” he inhales the smell of your hair, “in the dead the night when no one can hear you?”

You melt against him in surrender, your nerves lighting up as he plays with you. “P-Peter.”

“Hmm. Not quite, darling,” he murmurs. “Try again.” Peter catches your earlobe between his lips, kissing and nibbling on your skin. He dips inside your bra and teases your nipple into a harder, stiffer peak.

You sigh at the sensation, but say nothing more.

The Prime Minister is determined. “Come, now. Why so shy, sweetling? We both know about this little fantasy.” Peter presses your panties into your slit, letting the thin fabric absorb your burgeoning wetness. “I saw it in your eyes the day we met,” he coos into your ear, then kisses down your neck until he reaches the start of your shoulder. “Smelt it on you,” he murmurs, and sucks your delicate skin into his mouth.

It’s what finally breaks you. “Daddy,” you moan, voice cracking as Peter seeks the top of your slit through your panties, finding your clit and circling it.

He hums against your skin, sending soft little vibrations along your flesh. With dexterous fingers he tweaks your nipple at the same time as he strokes your sensitive bud, and all the while he kisses, and licks, and sucks at the curve of your neck.

“Oh,” you sigh, arousal pooling hot and wet in your core, “Daddy. Yes.” You push your backside against his crotch and rock your cheeks against his erection.

“Oh, _darling_ ,” Peter croons into your ear. “That’s it, isn’t it?” He slips his hand inside your underwear, and draws in a sharp breath at the unhindered wet heat of your cunt.

You moan, rolling your hips to grind yourself against his hand between your legs and pushing your chest into his other hand.

“Daddy,” he purrs, deep and dark and velvety, “that’s what you call me when you make yourself cum all over your fingers?”

“Toys,” you gasp, correcting him. You turn your head to the side to get as close to facing him as you can. “When I cum all over my toys.”

Peter hums a dark chuckle. “Mmh, you naughty girl,” he murmurs into your mouth, then catches your lips in a delicate kiss, groaning at the contact.

You moan as his lips caress yours and his tongue licks your mouth open. The pads of his fingers skim your swelling clit in slow, languorous circles—like he’s unhurried in his quest to make your pussy drip onto your underwear.

You clutch his hand at your breast, anchoring his palm to your flesh as you return his exploratory kisses.

Peter delights in your willingness, the squirming eagerness of your younger body and mouth against his. He trails two digits down your silky pussy lips and dips into your gelatine-slick opening, and your heat envelopes the tips of his fingers.

“Mmm,” he groans, breaking the kiss to murmur onto your lips, “you sweet thing.”

You drop your head back onto his shoulder and try to shift your legs apart as he teases your entrance, but your tight skirt is too constricting. You whimper a complaint, wanting more of him but unable to get it like this.

Peter smirks. “Come now, darling. Where’s all that clever thinking I hired you for?”

“Daddy,” you whine, “please.”

He withdraws his fingers from inside your underwear and cups your cheek, pulling you into another kiss.

You can smell your arousal on his fingers—so he must be able to, too.

“Up on Daddy’s desk, tout suite,” Peter says. “And hike your skirt up for me.”

You lift your skirt up to your waist and prop yourself up on the edge of the Prime Minister’s desk. You tug your panties to the side as Peter loosens his tie and flicks his top button open.

Peter hums through a small smile. “There’s a good girl,” he says, before joining your mouths in hasty, hungry kisses. He delves into your wet pussy with two long fingers, sheathing them completely.

“Mmh,” you moan, breaking the kiss, “Daddy.”

“Nnh, come back here.” Peter threads his fingers into your hair at your nape, keeping your head in place while he pumps his digits into your pussy. “You taste divine, darling,” he says, seeking your mouth again with his tongue. His lips move so tenderly against your own, and his firm tongue caresses yours like he’s never savoured anything so sweet.

You moan into his mouth and rock your pelvis onto his hand, matching the rhythm set by his fingers. Peter switches the angle of his mouth on yours and you draw your legs up around his hips, pulling him closer.

“Hmm,” Peter hums, drawing from your lips to murmur into your ear. “A dirty girl too, then?” He reaches deeper inside your pussy, searching out that ribbed spongey bundle of nerves. “You wouldn’t be telling me you want Daddy to fuck you in his office?”

You cinch your legs tighter around him, gasping as he toys with you from the inside. “I think,” you stumble over your words, “I think about it every time I’m in here, Daddy.”

“Is that so?” he coos, rubbing back and forth over your g-spot. At the same time, he grazes the fluttering walls of your slick pussy with the joints of his fingers.

“And when I get,” you stammer again, “home.”

“Oh,” he chuckles, slipping and sliding his digits along your insides, “you _are_ a naughty thing.” He nibbles your lobe to distract himself from his aching erection, and growls into your ear, “Impish little nymph.”

“Please,” you squeeze your walls tight, clenching on his fingers, and turn to breathe in his ear, “I want you, Daddy. Inside me.”

Bolts of desire shoot up Peter’s spine and surge through his cock. His slacks are uncomfortably confining—have been for a while now—and he’s quickly running out of reasons to deny you.

“You on the pill?” he murmurs quickly. The way your pussy squeezes his fingers, he only hopes he won’t disappoint you when he _does_ finally get inside you.

You nod frantically. “Taken care of.”

“Thank Christ,” he mutters. He withdraws from your pussy and makes quick work of his belt and fly. “Can’t be finding out about any more secret daughters.”

“I know,” you murmur, cradling his face and drawing him in for another kiss.

Peter returns your kiss eagerly and wraps one arm around your back, holding you firmly in place on his desk. With his other he grips his stiff length and easily finds your silky opening, prodding your slick hole with the engorged head of his dick.

You dig the back of your heeled shoes into his backside, urging him forward—and cease the kiss to whisper urgent pleas.

“Oh, _God_ ,” he groans as he sinks his straining cock into your pussy. He looks down, watching his dick disappear inside you inch by inch. “Oh sweetling—ffuck you’re a tight one.”

Your mouth drops open on a gasp as Peter fills you out, words no longer forming in your brain.

His gaze flicks back up to your face, scanning you. “Yes,” he hisses, watching as pleasure takes over your features, “oh, yes. That’s a good little cunt.” He bottoms out, buried to the hilt in your tight, wet, heat, and your face when he draws back and thrusts in again almost has him losing it then and there.

Your eyes flutter closed as Peter sets a vigorous rhythm, the thick length of his cock dragging along spots inside you you’d long forgotten about.

But, the Prime Minister is having none of that. “Look at me, darling,” Peter murmurs as he brings his thumb to your clit, “don’t stop being Daddy’s good girl now.” He flicks over the swollen little bud repeatedly, grazing it in time with his inward thrusts.

It sets your nerves alight, catching your attention as quick and sharp as a zap of static. Your eyes snap open to find Peter’s icy blues boring into yours with intensity, his pupils big and black.

“There’s my girl,” he purrs, his breath punctuated by the force of his quick thrusts.

“Daddy,” you moan in reply, dumb to all other words. You clutch his burgundy-red tie as he bucks into you.

Peter leans close to kiss you, as much to quiet you as to taste more of your lips and tongue while he stuffs you with his cock. Too soon, his thumb brushes against your clit in that perfect way, in just the right spot—and combined with his long, deep thrusts, you can’t help but mewl into his mouth.

“Hmmh,” he chuckles darky, breaking the kiss. “It’s like that, is it?”

He does it again and you gasp and moan.

“Oh, _sweet_ ling,” Peter groans as your pussy clenches on his cock, “listen to you.” He keeps at it, keeps stroking your clit and drawing the most illicit sounds from your throat. “Like a little kitten, darling,” he pants, girding himself against the squeezing, tightening walls of your cunt. You’re getting—somehow—wetter, and hotter, and he’s been around women’s bodies long enough to know what that means.

“Fuck,” he grunts, as every push in now squelches with slick and sloppy sounds. “Is that what I should call you, sweet?” he pants, squeezing his ass cheeks together to drill into you even deeper. “My little kitten,” his words are bitten off in a rasping groan, “oh, _fuck_.”

Your pussy starts to seize on him, your pleasure climbing higher and higher. “Daddy,” you moan desperately, your temperature rising all over. “Daddy I’m, I’m,” you clutch at him wildly, clinging to whatever of his arms you can, and when you lock eyes with him it trips your pleasure higher again. “You’ll make me cum.”

“Mmmhh,” he sighs, a long, deep, breathy, gravelly thing as he fucks into you harder, “I should hope so, sweetling.”

Peter thumbs at your clit faster and the tingling in your fingers and toes intensifies, much like the hot, tightening pleasure rising and cresting in your core.

You’re just barely hanging on, and he knows it. Peter grunts, groans. “Come on,” he thumbs your clit furiously, hitting so many nerves. “Let Daddy feel it.”

You snap, shattering and sizzling as you clench and spasm and gush and flood all over Peter’s cock. Your orgasm shakes your whole body, pleasure peaking in your nerves as Peter doesn’t let up fucking you through it. You rock and undulate until the tide of liquid warmth subsides and you’re left loose and dazed.

Peter slows and buries himself inside you, letting you catch your breath and keep his dick snug and warm at the same time. Somehow, he’d managed to withstand the onslaught of your orgasm—but if it were not for the promise of something else, something _more_ , he would’ve emptied his load into your pulsing cunt like it was his last day on Earth.

When your breathing settles to longer, slower panting, Peter pulls out of you. “Turn around, darling,” he says. “Bend over.”

On shaky legs you manoeuvre around to the position he asked for, leaning forward over the Prime Minister’s desk.

Peter hums his appreciation with a deep, dark glee. “See this ass all the God damned time in your little skirts.” He pushes your black pencil skirt all the way up over your cheeks, and crudely shoves your ruined panties to the side to better admire your derriere.

He grips his sticky cock, already painfully missing your pussy, and runs the swollen, flushed head through your puffy, glossy lips. Even just the sight of it sets his muscles to clenching, his balls twitching as he imagines unloading in your young cunt.

Peter grazes your clit and your breath catches, still too sensitive. “Daddy,” you squeak with uncertainty, unsure if you can give what he may be asking you for.

Peter draws back and angles the head of his dick at your opening. “Not to worry, sweetling,” he murmurs, letting his cock catch inside you, “Daddy won’t be long.”

The Prime Minister sheaths himself in your pussy, extra swollen and wet from your recent orgasm. He groans; and already Peter feels like he won’t be able to go a day without this cunt now that he’s finally had it.

He builds to a brisk pace, and despite your sensitivity the friction of his engorged dick along your slippery walls makes your eyes roll and lids flutter. You start to rock back against him, planting your forearms on the desk for the leverage you need to meet his thrusts but also, to push back harder, too.

Peter’s breath hitches in his throat. “Oh, good Christ,” he groans, feeling that tug and pull in the pit of his gut, “where’d a girl like you learn to fuck like this?” He lands a firm slap to one of your bouncing cheeks as he looks down, hypnotised by the sight of your pussy lips butterflied around his slick-shiny cock.

Before you can answer Peter grabs hold of your hips. Deeper, guttural groans tumble from his open, panting mouth as he pounds into you. It’s faster and harder, more relentless than anything he’s given you so far.

It makes you squeal.

“Yess, sweetling,” he growls. “Be a good girl, now.” He huffs and puffs, smacking against you with slaps of flesh-against-flesh as he mutters, “Take it. Take it.”

“Daddy!” you cry out—and the coil wound tight within him breaks.

Peter’s orgasm overwhelms him and he cums, gasping and shuddering, deep inside your wet, welcoming warmth. He buries his twitching cock as far inside your pussy as he can go and rides out the blissful spasms with grunts and sighs, painting your insides white.

Overcome, he plants his palms on the desk, either side of your hips, and pants to catch his breath.

You reach back, wrap your hand around one of his and squeeze. Peter hums.

He withdraws and rights his trousers, tucking his softening cock away and tucking his shirt back in. You lean up to right your own clothes and he plucks a couple of tissues from a nearby box. He hands them to you, to help with the clean up, he says.

When the pair of you are once again properly attired, he steps close. He traces over your face with an affectionate gaze and clenches his jaw, fighting a small that shines through his eyes regardless. He leans in and presses a sweet peck to the top of your cheekbone. “Goodnight, sweetling,” he murmurs softly.

Then, Peter leans away, and it’s a clear signal, a demarcation, a well-defined line: play time is over.

For now.

The Prime Minister walks back behind his desk and scans the remaining papers he needs to read before the morning. The real morning, when the sun is up and his meetings start again.

You pick up your folio make your way towards the door, but the Prime Minister calls your name.

“On your way out,” he says, normal volume, normal tone, “would you ask Francine to send up some coffee and a tray of Cornish fairings?”

You smile at him, and nod. “Of course, Prime Minister.”

He gazes at you, a hint of boyish cheek and charm in his eyes. “Love those little ginger things.”


End file.
